The end of November has marked my final trip of a year full of European voyages, and I was not prepared to experience the wonders of Milan without a Margarita to match. But before you make haste and frown upon my soul for not indulging in Italian vinos, an aperol spritz or a smooth and sultry limoncello – I can assure you tequila didn’t dominate my Milanese Christmas spirits. It just so happened I was about to find out that drinking of any kind in this beautiful city was to be the cultural eye opener, and not just because you could still get a Diet Coke from this ludicrous vendor:
RONALD? NO GRAZIE! I was very distressed in the face of such injustice, shining through the festive twinkles like the beacon of Hell. But alas, I had no time to get all Isabella Rossellini about this pabulum, as a certain Mrs Keywood-Mistry and I were here to visit our friend Tabs who had recently left the world of advertising to become an au pair. Dear drinker, you may think that this is a groundbreaking career change, but lest I remind you Arnold Schwarzenegger is now involved in politics:
So. Promising to be a simple three day extravaganza, when we finally got our act together to leave the flat on our first night out at the grand time of 2.30am, it seemed we were in for a catastrophe that could mirror the end of Napoleon’s reign. What we didn’t know we were in for was an introduction to a way of life so beautiful I considered what it meant to have nothing to declare and emigrate there and then: the Apertivo. Tell thy more? Oh go on then.
The Apertivo is a tradition of pre-meal drinks which apparently evolved after an absolute genius amongst men began to lure people in to his bar by offering out sultry snacks. FOR FREE. That’s right folks. Food for thought FOR FREE. And this happens every day. From 6pm-9pm. Every day. FOR FREEEEEE. Isn’t that wild? I felt wild folks. More wild than Steppenwolf.
So here we were, day 2, it’s 6pm, we’re in the Aperol cocktail bar by the Duomo, and suddenly a waiter appears holding a paper cone full of chips, a risotto ball, a Parma ham pastry, a caramelized onion on top of a cracker and, rather oddly, one square of a tuna sandwich. Admittedly, this last addition left me feeling very confused; I was pretty sure we hadn’t done anything to deserve any of this but the tuna sandwich in particular made me feel like I had the munchies after smoking something naughty. Did I eat in anyway? You better your bottom Euro I did!
Delicious canopies aside, its time to talk about the main course. Now, whilst Tabs and Heather oozed elegance with their short martinis, I instead ordered what turned out to be an absolute heffa– a frozen passionate fruit Margarita. I had clearly got confused about the weather, it was minus 500 degrees outside and I chose the froze, but what can I say, I was in Italy, I was after some passion. So here’s what it looked like:
Yes. You may observe it is very very yellow. It’s fair to say I was taken aback by the amount of yellow I was being faced with. But as we’ve learnt from the Buddha, life is all about balance, so even though what we had here was a garish body, the delicately poised spoon on top was nothing but a pleasure to scoop. Greg Wallace would have taken that spoon and let it caress the curves of his nose. The problem was as soon as I had a sly sip I realised very quickly I couldn’t finish the giant. I tried, Julius Caesar knows I tried, but it was too much for me to handle – it’s a pre-meal drink after all, I wanted to leave space for five pizzas.
The rest of the evening involves happenings best left to the cloud service of Italian Tinder (Tabs was a full on Italian resident now, she should be getting to know the locals) so I shall leave you with the plea to go to Milan, indulge in Aperitifs, visit the Duomo, have a peruse by the canal, order pumpkin ravioli (with a hot chocolate and a spoon) but know that perhaps this particular Margarita is best to order during the sunny season of Italy. Whether you want that tuna square served with it – that, my friends, is up to you.
Margarita & I 